


All We See is Sky

by Alex_diAngelo04



Series: Trees, Crickets, Grasshoppers [1]
Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Bisexual Evan Hansen, Gay Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen), Homophobia, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Musicals, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Notes, dear evan hansen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27062125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex_diAngelo04/pseuds/Alex_diAngelo04
Summary: Evan Hansen fell out of a tree, completely and utterly alone. He ended up with a broken arm, but nobody seemed to care at all. Nobody except the most feared kid in school.Connor Murphy tried to kill himself, but he didn't succeed. He started seeing a therapist, and he also began to get to know a really shy kid by the name Evan. Which didn't make sense; they were polar opposites.
Relationships: Evan Hansen/Connor Murphy, Evan Hansen/Jared Kleinman
Series: Trees, Crickets, Grasshoppers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2085738
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	1. Evan

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [When You're Falling in a Forest and There's Somebody Around](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/701911) by shadowthorn12039. 



I’m on my laptop, trying to figure out what to write in my letter. I start out how I always do: _Dear Evan Hansen…_

Yep. That’s me. Evan Hansen. EH. My first name is technically Mark, but my mom has been calling me by my middle name for years, so it stuck. Of course, my first name is always called on the first day of school, so I have to tell the teachers after class to call me Evan.

I start my letter, the introduction springing into my mind.

_Dear Evan Hansen, Today is going to be an amazing day because_

I think about it for a moment.

_because today all you have to do is just be yourself._

And then my anxiety kicks in.

_But also confident, that’s important. And interesting, easy to talk to, approachable. But be yourself, that’s just, that’s the major thing, the number one thing._

My hands start to sweat, and I wipe them on my striped, blue shirt.

_Also though, don’t worry about whether your hands are going to get sweaty for no reason and you can’t make it stop no matter what you do, because they’re not going to get sweaty, so I don’t even know why you’re bringing it up, because it’s not going to happen, because all you have to do is just be yourself._

The name of my crush floats into my mind and I start typing again.

_Don’t worry about it though, really, because it’s not like, it’s not going to be like that time you had the perfect chance. To introduce yourself to Zoe Murphy at the jazz band concert last year, and you were going to pretend to be super casual, like you didn’t even know her name, and she’d introduce herself and you’d be like, “Oh, I’m sorry, Chloe, you said your name was Chloe?” and she’d be like, “No, it’s Zoe, I said Zoe” and then you’d be like, “Oh, see, I thought you said Chloe because just, I’m very busy with other stuff right now is the thing.” I smile a little after recalling my game plan from last year. It fades when I start to write what actually happened. But then you didn’t even end up saying anything to her because you were too scared that your hands were sweaty, but they weren’t that sweaty, until you started worrying that they were sweaty, which made them sweaty, so you put them under the hand dryer in the bathroom, but then they were still sweaty, they were just very warm now as well._

I stare at it for a moment and my mom enters. I slam my laptop shut, anxiety and fear spreading through me. She holds up the twenty dollar bill from last night. Unused.

“So you just decided not to eat last night?” she asks.

“Oh, I’m, um, I wasn’t hungry…” I reply.

“You’re a senior in high school, Evan. You need to be able to order dinner for yourself if I’m at work,” she tells me. “You can do it all online now. You don’t have to talk to anyone on the phone. I know you don’t like the phone.”

“Okay, but see, that’s not true actually,” I say, talking faster than I probably need to. “You have to talk to the delivery person when they come to the door. Then they have to make change, and you have to stand their while it’s silent and their counting the change and…” I trail off, not really interested in continuing.

My mom sighed. “This is what you’re supposed to be working on, Evan. With Dr. Sherman? Talking to people. Engaging with people. Not running away from people.”

“I, uh…” I avoid her gaze. “You’re right. I’m going to be a lot better.”

“No, I know,” my mom is trying to make the situation positive despite the truth. “I know you are. And that’s why I made you an appointment with Dr. Sherman for this afternoon. I’ll pick you up right after school.” My gaze shoots up and I stare at her in disbelief.

“But I already have an appointment next week!”

“And I thought maybe you could use something a little sooner.” She looks at my shut laptop. “Have you been writing those letters he wants you to do? Those letters to yourself? The pep talks? ‘Dear Evan Hansen. This is going to be a good day and here’s why’.”

I tap my laptop anxiously. “I started one,” my mom gives me a look. “I’ll finish it at school.”

“Those letters are important, honey. They’re going to help you build your confidence. Seize the day!” she says enthusiastically.

“I guess!” I say dubiously.

“I don’t want another year of you sitting at home on your computer every Friday night, telling me you have no friends.”

I feel tears trying to spring up, but I fight them off. “Neither do I.”

I get out of bed and walk into my bathroom. I look in the mirror and my reflection looks back. I’m a seventeen-year-old kid, shorter than pretty much everyone. My hair is short, combed, and is the color of sand. I’m wearing a striped, blue shirt and tan colored pants, and I realize that the blue of the thick and thin stripes that form a pattern match the color of my eyes. I look tired, my eyes look strained. I look myself up and down again and realize that I’m picking my nails. It’s a bad habit, but at least I’m not biting them like I used to. My gaze travels to the cast wrapped around my left arm. I turn away from the mirror.

“Hey, I know!” my mom says as I go back into my room. “You can go around today and ask the other kids to sign your cast. How ’bout that? That’d be the perfect icebreaker, wouldn’t it?”

“Perfect,” I reply. She hands me a sharpie and I take it, reluctantly.

“I’m proud of you already,” she tells me as I grab my bag and pull on my shoes.

I stop at my door. “Oh. Good.”

I walk into the living room and stuff my laptop into my blue backpack, along with the completed summer packets that some teachers handed out at the end of last year. I don’t know why they do it; I’m not going to be in any of the junior teachers’ classes anyway. I make sure I have my keys. They’re in my pocket, so I exit my small house and start towards school. I don’t even look at the second car parked in the driveway as I pass. I’m never going to use it. I’m going to either donate it or sell it when I get the courage to tell my mom that I just don’t have the energy to drive.

-Time skip brought to you by Dear Evan Hansen: Original Broadway Cast-

I’ve just arrived at school, and I’m at the water fountain. Well, technically I’m at my locker. It’s just by the fountain, which is good news for me, considering I like to blend in, and there’s no better place to do it.

“Hey. How was your summer?” someone asks.

I turn to see a girl with dark toned skin and braided black hair. I look around, wondering if she’s talking to someone else. “My…?”

“Mine was productive,” said the girl. “I did three internships and ninety hours of community service. I know: wow.”

“Yeah. That’s, wow, that’s really impressive,” I reply.

The girl interrupts me. “Even though I was so busy, I still made some great friends. Or, well, acquaintances, more like.”

I gather my courage and say, “Do you want to maybe…I don’t what you’re, um…do you want to sign my cast?”

“Oh my God, what happened to your arm?” she answers my question with her own question.

“Oh. Well, I broke it. I was climbing a tree…”

“Oh, really?” she’s clearly not listening to me. “My grandma broke her hip getting into the bathroom in July. That was the beginning of the end, the doctors said. Because then she died.” I blink in surprise. I don’t know how to answer, but I end up not having to. “Happy first day.” The girl then walks off to talk to someone else.

I’m about to turn back to putting my stuff in my locker, when Jared Kleinman comes up to me.

“Is it weird to be the first person in history to break their arm from jerking off too much, or do you consider that an honor?” he asks me.

“What?” I’m caught off-guard. “I didn’t, I wasn’t…doing that.”

“Paint me the picture,” Jared stands next to me and looks off as if he’s letting his imagination run amok. “You’re in your bedroom, you’ve got Zoe Murphy’s Instagram up on your weird, off-brand cell phone…” he spat out Zoe’s name as if it were a curse.

“That’s not what happened,” I tell him hurriedly. “Obviously. I was, um, well I was climbing a tree and I fell.”

Jared stares at me. “You fell out of a tree? What are you, like, an acorn?”

“Well, I was, I don’t know if you know if you know this, but I worked this summer as an apprentice park ranger at Ellison State Park. I’m sort of a tree expert now. Not to brag, but…” Awkward. “Anyway, I tried to climb this forty-foot-tall oak tree.”

“And then you fell…?”

“Well, except it’s a funny story, because there was this solid ten minutes after I fell, when I just lay there on the ground waiting for someone to come get me. Any second now, I kept telling myself. Any second now, here they come,” I recount the story for Jared.

“Did they?” he asks.

“No. Nobody came. That’s the, that’s what’s funny.” I say. I think I see sympathy flash on Jared’s face after that.

“Jesus Christ…” he murmurs.

I decide to switch the subject. “How was, what did you do for the, you had a good summer?”

Jared grins. “Well, my bunk dominated in capture the flag and I got to second-base-below-the-bra with this girl from Israel who’s going to like be in the army…so, yeah, hopefully that answers your question.” He turns to go, but I still have a question to ask.

“Do you want to sign my cast?” I say it quickly, before I can back out. He looks back.

“Why are you asking me?”

“Well, just, I thought, because we’re friends.” I have a suspicion about what Jared is going to say next.

“We’re family friends,” Bingo. “That’s like a whole different thing and you know it.” He punches me in the arm, softer than usual. “Hey. Tell your mom to tell my mom I was nice to you, or my parents won’t pay for my car insurance.”

“I will.” I say.

A kid with long hair and dark clothing crosses and goes to his locker, directly across the hall from mine. Jared looks like he recognizes the kid.

“Hey, Connor. I’m loving the new hair length. Very school shooter chic,” he says. I look at Jared, horrified. You can’t just _say_ that to someone! The kid, Connor, turns and glares at Jared with cold intensity. Jared’s grin fades. “I was kidding. It was a joke.”

“Yeah, no, it was funny. I’m laughing. Can’t you tell?” he’s talking with no joke or bounce in his voice at all. “Am I not laughing hard enough for you?”

Jared laughs nervously. “You’re such a freak.” He hurries off, leaving me alone.

Connor looks at me, his glare as cold as ever. I’m frozen, I can’t move one inch. I make the mistake of opening my mouth and a sheepish laugh comes out.

“What the fuck are you laughing at?” he demands.

“What?”

“Stop fucking laughing at me,” Connor clarifies.

I’m both shocked and scared out of my mind. “I’m not,” is all I can say.

“You think I’m a freak?”

“No, I don’t—”

“I’m not the freak.”

“But I wasn’t—”

“You’re the fucking freak!” he pushes me, hard.

I hit the lockers and Connor throws my backpack across the hall. My left arm is suddenly throbbing with blinding pain. I’m shaking, tears welling in my eyes. I’m thankful that I’d put my laptop and school books in my locker. I get up and am nearly knocked back down by what felt like needles being stabbed into my arm. I stumble over to my bag and grab it. It takes me longer than it should to get my stuff in my locker. I can’t move my arm without the rest of me seizing up, so I walk to class doing as little movement as possible.

The first class I have is science, but I can’t focus. He calls my name as Mark and, after the class ends, I stay behind to tell him to call me by my middle name instead. He’s understanding and then goes back to his work. I walk out and a girl stops me. She has brown hair, and her style is undeniably casual.

“Hey, I’m sorry about my brother. I saw him push you. He’s a psychopath,” Zoe Murphy says. “Evan, right?”

“Evan?” I repeat.

“That’s your name…?” she replies.

“Oh. Yes. Evan. It’s Evan. Sorry.”

Zoe gives me a quizzical look. “Why are you sorry?”

“Well, just because you said, Evan, and I said, I repeated it, which is, that’s so annoying when people do that.” I tell her, trying to keep up my courage and not move my arm at the same time.

“I’m Zoe,” she sticks out a hand. I step back.

“No, I know.”

“You know?”

“No, just, I’ve seen you play guitar in jazz band,” I feel my normal anxiety building up. “I love jazz band. I love jazz. Not all jazz. But definitely jazz band jazz. That’s so weird, I’m sorry.”

“You apologize a lot,” she observes, her hand at her side again.

“I’m sorry,” I catch myself after the fact. “Or, I mean. You know what I mean.” Did she? How could Zoe know what I mean if I don’t even know? Guess I have quite a lot to put into my letter today.

“Well, I’ll talk to you later.”

“You don’t want to sign my…?” I start. She turns back.

“What?”

I instantly regret saying anything. I should’ve kept my mouth shut the whole time and let her do the talking. I always make a mess of everything.

“What? What did you say?” I reply with the first thing that comes to mind.

“I didn’t say anything, you said something,” Zoe reminds me.

“No. Me? No way,” I search for something else to say. “José.”

“Um. Okay…José.” Zoe smiles and walks away.

Shit. She must think I’m a freak. I mentally remind myself to never do anything like that again. I might just keep my mouth shut for the remainder of the year. That way, I won’t embarrass myself or others. I bet Jared would rejoice if I found some way to seal my mouth shut.

Three classes later, as I walk to lunch, I remember something I had heard a while ago. _If a tree falls in a forest and there’s nobody around. Does it crash or even make a sound?_ I’m reminded of myself and I put a spin on it. _When you’re falling in a forest and there’s nobody around, do you ever really crash or even make a sound?_ Did I? Did I make any noise? I think I did. I remember shouting or something. But still nobody came.

At lunch, I ate with Jared, as usual. But I don’t say a word. I just listen. He’s rambling about something that happened during summer, and he says he thinks that his parents might get divorced. I think that’s pretty sad, but I don’t trust myself to say anything.

“Evan?” Jared asks. “You’re being pretty quiet.”

I shrug. I haven’t even opened my mouth to eat. I’m just kind of staring at my little shred of food. I don’t usually eat, but Jared always puts something on my tray anyway.

“You haven’t even touched your bread,” Jared says. “You always at least eat the side, and you’re not even doing that.” He actually sounds a little concerned, but still I don’t reply.

I catch a glimpse of Zoe again, talking to her brother. They’re clearly arguing, Connor yelling so loud that I can hear it faintly. Zoe is shouting just as loud.

“Another Murphy quarrel for the records, right?” Jared asks.

 _I wonder what they’re arguing about,_ I think. I contemplate whether to actually say it or not, but the bell rings before I can decide.

I take my tray and go, ignoring Jared as he calls out to me. I dump the mashed potatoes in the trash and put the piece of bread in a plastic bag because I feel bad. Of course, to get to my next class, I have to pass through the room that Zoe and Connor are in. It’s an avoided area, that’s why I use it. I hate being caught up in the crowds. I try to go behind them, so they won’t see me, but Zoe catches me by the arm. My uninjured one, of course.

“Look, Connor, here he is,” she says. “Why don’t you tell him what you just told me?”

Connor looks at me. He squints. He scoffs and then walks off.

I wriggle free of Zoe’s grasp and she storms away in the other direction. I’m alone now, as usual.

-Time skip, the computer lab, at 3:15-

I’m sitting at one of the corner desks, shielded by a divider. I’m staring at the blank Word document on the screen of my laptop. I keep going back and forth on whether or not to keep the letter I had written this morning and show it to Dr. Sherman. My phone rings and I pick up without looking at the caller ID. I know it’s my mom; I don’t have anyone else’s number and Jared doesn't usually call.

“Shit, honey. I know I was supposed to pick you up for your appointment. I’m stuck at work,” my mom says. “Erica called in with the flu and I’m the only other nurse’s aide on today, so I volunteered to pick up her shift…” Of course she did.

“It’s fine.” I reply, not surprised at all.

“It’s just, they announced more budget cuts this morning, so anything I can do to show that I’m, you know, a team player…” she continues to explain.

“It’s fine,” I repeat. “I’ll take the bus.”

My mom sighs. “Perfect. That’s perfect. Oh and I’m going straight from here to class, so I won’t be home until late, so please eat something. We’ve got those Trader Joe’s dumplings in the freezer…”

“Maybe.”

There’s a moment of silence between us.

“Did you write one of those letters yet? Dr. Sherman’s expecting you to have one,” she reminds me. “‘Dear Evan Hansen. This is going to be a good day and here’s why’?”

“Yeah, no, I already finished it,” I lie. “I’m in the computer lab right now, printing it out.”

“I hope it was a good day, sweetheart.”

I’m silent again. Do I tell the truth? I’ve already lied, so… “It was…yeah, it was really great,”

My mom sounds relieved when she says, “Great. That’s great. I hope it’s the beginning of a great year. I think we both could use one of those, huh? Shit. I have to run. Bye. I love you.” She hangs up, leaving me in the dust.

I put my phone on the table. “Bye.” I mutter.

I press the space bar and the bright screen appears when I enter my password. I don’t stop for a breath and I compose my letter.

_Dear Evan Hansen,_

_It turns out, this wasn’t an amazing day after all. This isn’t going to be an amazing week or an amazing year. Because…why would it be?_

_Oh I know. Because there’s Zoe. And all my hope is pinned on Zoe. Who I don’t even know and who doesn’t know me. But maybe if I did. Maybe if I could just talk to her, then maybe…maybe nothing would be different after all._

_I wish everything was different. I wish that I was a part of…something. I wish that anything I said…mattered, to anyone. I mean, face it: Would anybody even notice if I disappeared tomorrow?_

_Sincerely, your best and most dearest friend, Me._

“When you’re falling in a forest and there’s nobody around, do you ever really crash or even make a sound?” I sing quietly, the tune coming to me naturally.

I walk out of the lab. _When you’re falling in a forest and there’s nobody around, do you ever really crash or even make a—_

“So,” a voice sounds in front of me. I stop and look up to see Connor Murphy with a piece of printer paper in his hand. “What happened to your arm?”

“Oh,” I press my casted arm close to me. “I um, I fell out of a tree actually.”

Connor laughs a little. “You fell out of a tree? That is just the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. Oh my God.”

I do my best to laugh along, to make it seem like he isn’t making fun of me. “I know.”

He peers at my arm. “No one’s signed your cast.”

“No, I know,” I reply.

“I’ll sign it.”

“Oh. Um…you don’t have to.”

Connor puts out his hand. “Do you have a Sharpie?”

A moment goes by. I do have a Sharpie, my mom gave me one. She thought that someone would want to sign my cast and she was, apparently, right. I reach into my pocket, trying not to do it shakily. I put the black marker in his hand, and he pulls my broken arm closer to him.

“Ow!” I wince as pain shoots through my aching arm.

“Okay.” Connor loosens his grip, just a little. He uncaps the Sharpie and I watch as he writes his name in gigantic block letters. I’m flabbergasted, but it’s not like anybody else would want to sign anyway.

“Oh. Great. Thanks.” I say, staring at the name in disbelief. He gives me back the Sharpie.

“Now we can both pretend we have friends.”

“Good point.” I say.

Wait.

How does he know that I don’t have friends? Did he watch me or something? Or maybe it’s just how he perceives me to be and ended up being right is all.

“Is this yours?” he asks, holding out the printer paper. “I found it on the printer. ‘Dear Evan Hansen’. That’s your name, right?”

Fear surges inside me. “Oh that’s just a stupid, it’s a paper I had to write for a, um, for an assignment…”

He looks down at it. “‘Because there’s Zoe’,” a look of realization crosses his face. “is this about my sister?”

“No,” I reply quickly. Too quickly. “Not at all.”

“You wrote this because you knew I would find it,” Connor says. His eyes are blazing with anger, and I want to step back, but I’m frozen in place again.

“What?”

“You saw that I was the only other person in the computer lab, so you wrote this and you printed it out, so that I would find it.” He sounds so…sure of himself, even though he’s wrong.

“Why would I do that?” I ask.

“So I would read some creepy shit you wrote about my sister and freak out, right?” Connor continues. “And then you can tell everyone that I’m crazy, right?”

“No. Wait. I don’t even, what?” my heart has sped up and I’m afraid he’s going to push me again, maybe do it more effectively.

“Fuck you.” Connor storms away without physically harming me.

“But I really, I need that back,” I call after him. “Please. Can you just, can you please give it back?” I’m desperate, but he’s not listening.

I race out of the school and get on the bus. Jared is there, and he gets up so I can sit in the window seat. I sit down and hold my stomach, feeling as if my heart is going to burst out of my chest, and not in a good way.

“Where’re you getting off?” Jared asks.

I don’t reply. I just look out the window, watching the world pass by before me.

I wish it would just stop.

I wish the oak tree had been fifty-feet-tall.


	2. Connor

_Four days later…_

“Get off me!” I tell my mom. “I’m fine, okay? Just stop!”

“I can’t believe you!” my father, Larry, cries. “Do you have any idea what you put your mother and I through?”

“Hope, that it worked, and you’d never have to see me again?” I ask.

“Definitely what you put me through,” Zoe says.

“Zoe!” Cynthia, my mom, is actually crying and holding my hand so tight that I am physically unable to wriggle free. “This is an emotional time for all of us, I know it is.”

“It better not be.” I say.

“Connor, you scared me out of my mind!” Cynthia says.

“I don’t care!” I reply, attempting for a fifth time to yank my hand free and failing. “If you guys hadn’t showed up, looking for me, I’d be where I fucking want to!”

“Hey!” Larry warns. “You are still talking to your mother.”

“Oh, that’s right, I can’t curse even if I almost died,” I say. “Of course, it was on my own fucking accord!”

“If you still think your life is so shitty, why did you write a suicide note?!” Zoe demands. I clench my hands together, finally making my mother let go.

“I didn’t write any note to you people!” I shout. “And, if I did, you wouldn’t know because it would be ripped up and in the dumpster!”

“Excuse me?” a woman with blonde princess curls peeks inside the room. “Hi. I’m Heidi Hansen, Erica’s replacement for now.”

“Replacement? They fired her?” I laugh. “Wow, that’s a shocker.”

“No, they didn’t fire her,” Heidi says. Her blue eyes remind me of the boy’s. What’s his name again? “I’m just substituting for now.”

“So, what’re you going to do to me?” I ask. “I’m not sick, and don’t say that I’m _mentally ill_. I hate this fucking ward and I don’t want to be here.”

“You know,” she starts, not fazed by my language at all, “my son has Social Anxiety Disorder and a low case of depression. He also very much dislikes the mental ward and despises it when people view him as someone who’s mentally unstable.”

I roll my eyes. “Remind me why I care.”

“You don’t have to care. I just thought you might like to know,” Heidi approaches me and I’m actually fine with it. As long as she doesn’t drug me. My, the irony is real.

“I’m not here to give you a shot or anything, just to see how you’re doing,” she glances up at the life support. “Your heart rate’s a little high. Oo, I caught that one.”

I grin and she starts asking me a series of questions about how I feel both physically and mentally. I answer truthfully, knowing that this woman could probably catch a lie from a mile away.

“Okay, well, that’s all the examination that you need right now,” Heidi starts to walk out.

“Wait,” Cynthia stops her. “There’s no depression medication or anything?”

“It seems as though Connor was on depression medication, only they weren’t prescribed,” she eyes me. “I suggest counseling.”

“What? No!” I say.

“Counseling can help you, Connor,” she tells me. “I recommend Dr. Edward Sherman. He’s my son’s counselor.”

“Thank you,” Larry says politely. “We’ll keep that in mind.”

“Glad I could help.” Heidi walks out of the room.

“She was nicer than I expected,” Zoe says. “Especially considering who she was talking to.”

“Fuck you!” I tell her.

“Fuck you!” she replies.

“Is anyone else getting a sense of déjà vu from this?” Larry asks. “Maybe from breakfast a few days ago?”

“Okay, I can’t handle this,” Cynthia says. “Come on, Larry, let’s go for a walk and let our children sort things out.”

“I’ll be dead before that happens,” I tell her.

She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. She takes her husband’s hand and they walk out of my hospital room. Zoe looks just as uncomfortable as I do, sitting in one of the four chairs next to my hospital bed.

_Well,_ I think. _At least I’m sure of one thing:_

_I really hate hospitals._

-Time skip, the hospital lobby, four days later-

I stand next to my father while he signs the release forms. It’s like the papers that prisoners sign when they get out of prison. Different scenario, same feeling. I watch him put my name in the place that says, _Patient Name_. He also put down that I’m coming back in two weeks for an examination.

“I’m going to say what I still think, Mrs. Murphy,” says my physician. “He should stay here for another few days, so we can keep an eye on him.”

_Oh, fuck no._ I think.

“No, my son has school,” Cynthia replies. “He needs to get back to it. And, he’ll be seeing a counselor recommended by one of your nurse’s aides, Heidi. I’d like to tip her. Twenty dollars.”

“Actually, we don’t take tips,” my physician tells her.

“I insist,” my mother goes to take out her wallet. “She was so kind to Connor.”

“No, really, ma’am, Heidi isn’t able to take your money,” the doctor takes a step back. “At least not on hospital grounds. I’m sure Heidi intends to keep her job.”

“Mom!” Zoe calls. “Can we go now?”

“Yes, let’s go before we’re late,” my father agrees. “Don’t want Connor missing out on his very first therapy session.”

I clench my fists. “I really don’t think I need to go.”

“Yes, well, your mother and I disagree,” Larry replies. “And you don’t have a choice. Two sessions every week.”

“ _Two_?!” I try not to shout. “What the fuck are you trying to do, kill me?”

“No,” my mother comes towards me. “Of course not, darling.”

“Do not call me that.” I growl.

My mother gives me a sympathetic look and turns to my sister. “Connor will have two sessions every week, and you will attend one of them with him.”

I feel anger surge inside me, and I can tell Zoe is not happy about this announcement either. I make the decision that I’m not going to say much about it now, but that my parents would really get it when we got home.

“Mom!” Zoe protests. “Dad!”

“Zoe, we agreed on this matter,” Cynthia informs her. “You won’t have to attend all the meetings, just one every week.”

I storm out of the hospital and almost run into someone. I don’t take a good look at them, but they have blonde-brown hair, and they don’t say a single word as they hurry past me. I walk to my father’s car and climb into the backseat.

I take out my phone, checking it. Of course, it’s a waste of my time, because I know nobody texted or emailed me of all people. What am I expecting, an invitation to a bar mitzvah? Yeah, I know that’s not happening.

As my family joins me in the silver Jeep, my father pulls out of the hospital parking lot and drives the opposite direction of the way we got here. It’s a little hard to believe that I almost died eight days ago. Eh, no, scratch that. It’s totally believable.

The car ride is completely silent, which surprises me because me and Zoe usually have some sort of small argument that transforms on the way somewhere. I think this silver Jeep of my father’s is seriously bad luck. If I believed in that stuff. Which I don’t.

The car pulls up to another large, hospital-like lot. It’s more like a doctor’s building, though. The four story building is made of white bricks and large windows line a few walls. It looks like a doctor’s office, which I hate.

“Come on, honey,” Cynthia urges me. “It won’t be that bad, I promise. Remember what Heidi said about her son?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I climb out of the car. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Zoe and my parents walk ahead, me trailing tiredly behind. I really don’t want to go to this stupid therapist, but I’m also not in the mood for one of my parents to scold me.

Inside, it feels like a fall day. I tug on one of my sleeves as my mom presses the up button for the elevator. We wait in silence, the only ones one the main floor. When the elevator dings and we go in, we still don’t say a word. I feel myself being lifted, which gives me a queasy feeling.

I brace myself with the railing behind me and am thankful when the elevator doors open again, revealing a tightly knit room consisting of five people, not including my family and I. The carpet is space themed, which makes me want to vomit. Did the interior designers of this place think everyone was a child?

“Go on,” Cynthia gives me a little push forward, towards the circulation desk. “You have to fill out a form or two. You don’t need us for that.”

I hesitate before going up to the desk. The woman behind the desk, the one with curly black hair and dark skin, looks up at me. She smiles a little.

“Hello. Who are you coming to see?” she has a Southern accent.

“Um…” I search for the name of the therapist. “Dr. Edward…?”

She laughs a little. “You mean Dr. Sherman? His first name is Edward. And your name is…?”

I clench and unclench my fists. “Connor.”

“You got a last name?”

I shrug. “Not one that you need to know.”

The woman laughs aloud. “I like you. I’m Erica.”

“Do _you_ have a last name?” I ask. She raises an eyebrow.

“Not one that you need to know.” Erica puts two pieces of paper in front of me. “You’re gonna need to fill these out, and then you can go sit with your family until you’re called. You want a clipboard?”

“Uh…sure, why not.”

I take the clipboard that’s offered, along with the two forms. I sit down fifteen chairs away from my family, which is intentional. I take a few glances at the first form, which is the standard stuff. I fill it out with no problems, checking the boxes.

However, when I look at the second paper, my eyes widen. I slam the first one down over it and hurry over to the desk. I hand the clipboard back to Erica, who gives me a suspicious look.

“You finished it that fast?” she wonders aloud. “Wow, you did it quicker than the winning horse in a race! And that’s fast.”

I shrug and go back to my seat. There’s a family in front of me, consisting of two women, a blonde and burnet, and a boy who looked about eight. He’s curled up in the blonde’s lap, holding the burnet’s hand at the same time.

It kind of startles me that someone that young would be in a waiting room for therapy. Is anxiety really that common? Or, maybe it’s for something else. I don’t really care, anyway. Why would I? I’m never going to know.

I tap the tune of _Hotel California_ on my knee, singing it in my head. It’s one of my favorite songs, behind _A, B, C, 1, 2, 3_ from the Jackson Five. I’m very into Classic Rock. It reminds me that I don’t always have to live in the present. Music is one of the only things besides books that sweep me away from my desolate existence. _A Wrinkle in Time_ , by Madeleine L’Engle, is one of my personal favorite books.

I find myself going over the books that I’m anticipating for next week. My dad lets me go to the bookstore twice every month. It’s the only thing that I ever thank him for.

_Meg Murry; Charles Wallace; Calvin O’Keefe; Mrs. Whatsit; Mrs. Who; Mrs. Which; and, my mortal enemy, Camazotz and IT._ I recall gladly. _‘Not gone, just enfolded’. God, I wish that shit were true._

I must have gotten lost in thought, because my name is called by my father, who sounds annoyed. I look up to see a man with brown hair and glasses wearing a green sweater and khakis.

“Go on, we don’t have all day.” Larry tells me.

I roll my eyes and walk forward, towards the man. He gives me a warm smile and leads me down a hallway and into a small room. It has two cabinets on the far wall, trees and squirrels stretching across them. Games are stacked neatly on the floor and there’s a Lego kingdom that rests all around.

“Hell of a room,” I mutter. “Looks like a fucking five year old was in here last.”

“More like sixteen,” the man sits down in one of the blue beanbag chairs in the corner of the room. I look around, searching for a bookshelf. “So, Connor. You filled out your first form to perfection, but you did absolutely nothing on the second. Do you want to explain why?”

“Do I have a choice?” I ask. He gives me a curious look.

“If you didn’t have a choice, I wouldn’t have asked if you wanted to do it or not.”

I consider his point and tap my foot on the floor. “No. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I think that’s quite fair,” he wrote something down on his clipboard. He looks back up at me after. “I’m Dr. Edward Sherman, you may call me either Dr. Edward or Dr. Sherman. In this room, you are given space to talk about anything you want, or to not. I’m not forcing you to do anything.

“Good,” I reply. “I hate it when people force me to do things.”

“That’s something you and I have in common, then.” Dr. Sherman writes briefly again.

I tug at my sleeve. “If I told you anything serious, you wouldn’t go blabbing to my parents, would you?”

“No, sir, it goes against the oath I swore,” he tells me.

“Oath?” I repeat.

Dr. Sherman shrugs. “Imagine me as a priest. Priests can’t talk about anything that happens in the confessional, right? No matter how big or small. It’s the same with me. If I told your parents, I’d lose my job and I’d probably never see any of the kids I help again. I love them all very dearly.”

“Like a blood oath?” I continue. “Did you make an Unbreakable Vow?”

“You mean like in Harry Potter?” he asks.

“No, I’m talking about _The Hunger Games_.” I roll my eyes. “So, could you tell me why the fuck I’m here?”

“Well, I think you know the answer to that a lot more than I do,” Dr. Sherman points out. “I don’t know you, but I do hope that I get to.”

I stuff my hands into my pockets. “Are you allowed to talk about your…patients to other kids?”

“No,” he informs me. “I don’t really think of them as patients. That makes it seem like some sort of doctor’s appointment. You and everyone I see are just…well, kids. And I love to talk to you guys.”

I stay where I am, leaning against the wall. “What do I have to do to get out of here early?”

Dr. Sherman takes out a piece of folded paper from his pocket. He unfolds it, looks at it, and puts it back.

“I want you to choose between two things,” he says. “Talk about your days or write about them.”

I blink. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Either talk about your days vocally or write them down,” he clarifies. “You can write yourself a letter after you get out of school to bring it here for me to see. Or you can keep it to yourself, but I do want to help you, and I can’t do that without knowing what’s going on.”

I pause, thinking. Write a letter to myself…didn’t that kid from school do that? The one who wrote the letter I stole. I don’t recall his name, but I’m positive that he exists; I signed his cast.

“Okay, fine,” I reply. “I’ll write the shitty letters.”

“You can start now, if you want.” Dr. Sherman holds out a laptop. I hesitate before taking it. “Create your own account.”

I do as I’m told and then sign in. I sit down in the chair across from Dr. Sherman and go into Word. I start simple:

_Dear Connor Murphy,_

What am I going to say to myself? Which day do I write about? I pause and look at Dr. Sherman.

“Does it have to be to myself?” I ask. “Can I address it to someone?”

“If you want to.” Dr. Sherman replies. I nod.

I think about it and the events from eight days ago pop into my head. I start to type them out.

_Dear Absolutely Nobody,_

_Today was not good. Well, all this shit didn’t happen today, but eight days ago. I remember every word that was spoken to me, so why not write it down, right? No harm in it._

_That morning was a major fucking disaster. I walked downstairs, high out of my mind, and sat down to breakfast. The only thing I truly remember from that was my mom asking me to clarify that I wasn’t high, which I didn’t. I also recall cursing at my younger sister, Zoe. And then I left, because my mom pretty much said I didn’t have to go to school, but I ended up going anyway._

_I got to school late, predictably, and this dumbass Jeremy guy called my long hair ‘school shooter chic’. Of course, when I glared at him, his shitty grin evaporated. There was this kid next to him, blonde-brown hair. He didn’t move when I turned my gaze to him after Jeremy left. He actually fucking laughed. Now that I think back on it, the laugh wasn’t at me. It was just hella nervous._

_I thought he was laughing at me, so I pushed him. I have to admit, it was enjoyable. But, for some shitty reason, I started to feel bad about it by the end of the day. I saw the kid again, and I had found the stupid letter that he wrote to himself. He talked about my fucking sister in it, something about all his hope being pinned on her. Super fucking weird._

_It was fine between the two of us before I actually read the letter. I legit signed his cast and then asked him about it. He started freaking out and that’s when I looked down at letter. I got really fucking mad and then stormed off. I still can’t place his stupid name._

_That’s all I have to say._

_From,_

_The School Shooter_

“There,” I say, “I’m done.”

“Keep the laptop,” replies Dr. Sherman. “You don’t have to show me.”

I stare at him. “I don’t?”

“No. Not if you don’t want to.”

I close the laptop and tap my fingers on the surface. Dr. Sherman is busy writing, and I’m wondering why he is. What’s he writing? I suddenly have the urge to grab the clipboard and chuck it across the hall, but something in me calms me down.

“What’s a hobby of yours?” Dr. Sherman asks abruptly. “What do you like to do?”

“I don’t really have a…hobby, per say,” I reply. “I like to read and listen to music.”

“What books do you read?” he continues. I pause.

“Mostly sci-fi or fantasy. Though, I did have a stage with my uncle’s large collection of _Marvel_ comic books. I read all of them in less than three years,” I tell him.

“Were you and your uncle close?”

I don’t answer for a long while. I want to tell him, for some weird reason, but I don’t talk about my uncle to anyone, especially not my dad.

“Yeah,” I narrow my eyes at Dr. Sherman. “What’s it to you?”

He seems to consider this and looks back down to write. I feel anger surge through me. I clench my fists, trying to restrain it, and failing quite miserably.

“Okay, well, Connor, this is the end of our first session,” Dr. Sherman says. “It only lasted twenty-five minutes, and the next one will be thirty.”

I don’t reply, just get up and hurry back into the lobby. I don’t even stop to say anything to my family as I storm out of the room. I’m frustrated, and the laptop that I had written my letter in seems to be a point of pure anger.

“Connor!” Cynthia calls after me. “Connor, I can’t be yelling after you. We’re in a public building.”

“I couldn’t care any fucking less,” I growl. “And if you don’t want to yell after me, then don’t.”

Cynthia is trying to be gentle with me, I can tell, but she’s having a hard time. “Go to the car. Wait there for me and your father.”

“Fine.”

I go down the stairs, my arms crossed and hair getting annoyingly in my face. But I do as I’m told and wait by the car.

_I’ll write a letter tomorrow,_ I promise myself. _I’ll do it even if it’s the last fucking thing I ever do._


End file.
